False Charity

by Veronica Heley

  Oliver, deflated, said he didn’t think so. Maggie fidgeted. Clearly she didn’t have anything suitable, either.

  ‘All right, both of you,’ said Bea. ‘Dress hire, first thing tomorrow. DJ for you, Oliver. Maggie, I want you to wear something subdued and slinky, black or some other dark colour, ankle length, no pattern, no glitter. Right? I’ll sub you. Now let me get at that paperwork before I decide I’m too tired to do anything more than crawl into bed.’

  Because there was a problem she had to solve, wasn’t there? She believed the police often had the same dilemma. Do you allow a crime to take place, so that you can catch the villains in the act – which may mean the victims get thumped financially or physically before you can step in to arrest the baddies – or do you warn the victim beforehand, and risk tipping off the villains? Which was best? Prevention or cure?

  And how on earth was she going to extract the money from the con men? What weapons precisely did she have in her armoury?

  What about Tommy Banks’ huge fists? Could she risk bringing him in? He’d be a force to be reckoned with, but did she approve of fisticuffs? Well, no. Not usually. But in this case …?

  If only they’d been able to trace the villains back to their lair!

  When Oliver and Maggie had disappeared, Bea went to close and lock the French windows. With her hands on the catch, she thought, Hamilton, I need you. Advice, please. She went down the stairs into the garden and sat where her husband had been accustomed to sit and pray.

  She rested her hands, palm upwards, on her knees and bent her head. She didn’t know what words to use. Perhaps none were necessary. Perhaps all she had to do was lift up her heart to her Lord, and ask Him to comfort her and everyone she cared for in time of trouble. She asked for guidance, and for strength to carry out whatever course of action He wished her to take.

  Some words that Hamilton had often used came into her mind. Part of a morning prayer. Well, this wasn’t the morning, but it had the right sentiments. Something about being ready to go out into the world to right wrong, to overcome evil, to suffer wounds and endure pain if need be …

  The rest of it had vanished from her mind. She repeated the few words she remembered over and over to herself. To right wrong. To overcome evil. To put up with Maggie’s dreadful hee-haw of a laugh. Oh dear, that made her giggle. Would God be bothered to listen to such a trivial prayer as that?

  She sat there a long time. A blackbird came and sang in the tree above her. A light breeze ruffled the leaves. Some nicotiana nearby scented the air.

  Perhaps she’d sleep better tonight.

  Friday, late evening

  Noel was planning what he’d do to Maggie. Where should he take her, for a start? Back to her place? No, her aunt lived there, and she might interrupt just when things were getting interesting. He didn’t want interruptions.

  Should he bring her back to the flat? Mm. No. Mummy might object if she had to do too much clearing up afterwards, and he was planning to make a mess, wasn’t he?

  He snapped his fingers. He’d book a room at the hotel, put it on the plastic. Why not make it the honeymoon suite? Yes, why not? He’d be off before the staff were up in the morning, and they could clear up the mess afterwards. He’d be long gone.

  He’d lure Maggie upstairs with a message from her aunt, perhaps give her a drink with something in it. He’d topped up his stock of useful pills while clubbing this last week.

  Of course, he might have to choke off that silly little slapper of a receptionist. However many times had she tried to phone him today?

  He must remember to put a pair of thin latex gloves into his dinner jacket. No need to leave fingerprints. And Maggie wasn’t going to talk afterwards, was she?

  Fourteen

  Saturday, morning

  Breakfast was tiresome. Maggie was over bright and noisy. Oliver wasn’t looking at Maggie, either because – like Bea – he liked peace and quiet in the mornings, or because he couldn’t stand the sight of her with her hair chopped off. Bea decided she felt too frail to cope with either of them, sipped her coffee, ate some fruit and announced in a cheerful tone that she expected them to be ready to leave for the dress agency in fifteen minutes.

  She took them there, told the manageress exactly what she wanted for both of them, and drove on to Green’s Hotel. She wasn’t convinced that she was doing the right thing, but didn’t think she could live with herself if the hotel made a big loss on the evening. She had another crisis of confidence when she spotted a receptionist slotting a card announcing the charity function into the board in the foyer.

  She went down the corridor and into the function room, which was being prepared for the event by a team of four or five people, all of whom would expect to be paid for their time and trouble.

  ‘May I help you?’

  It was the manageress who’d shown Bea round on Thursday. She was wearing the same sharp black suit, with a different blouse. She was just as well turned out as before, but there was a suggestion of strain about the eyes and mouth. Was the staff shortage really so bad?

  Bea said, ‘Mrs Abbot. You remember I called the other day? I wonder if we might have a quiet word?’

  The manageress hesitated. ‘Perhaps we could fix up a time for you to call early next week? I’m afraid I’m rather tied up—’

  ‘It’s about the function tonight, and it’s important.’ Apparently she’d put sufficient urgency in her voice to convince. The manageress led Bea to a quiet office off the foyer. ‘Some coffee?’

  ‘That would be good,’ said Bea, forgetting that she was supposed to be cutting down on caffeine. On the other hand, she really needed it this morning.

  The manageress’ hand hovered over the internal phone, but then she withdrew it, and vanished to some inner region to fetch the coffee herself.

  So, thought Bea, they’re so busy the manageress can’t get someone else to run an errand to the kitchens for her? What sort of hotel is it that gets so short-staffed in the holiday season?

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Coffee appeared. Nicely laid out on a tray. With shortbread. The kitchens appeared to be working normally, then. ‘Milk, sugar?’

  ‘Black. I think we’re both going to need it.’

  A professional smile. ‘Oh, I hope it won’t come to that.’ She poured black coffee out for herself as well.

  ‘Don’t count on it.’ Bea sipped her coffee. Black and strong. She shuddered, but the caffeine did help. She laid one of the agency cards on the desk. ‘When I called on you the other day, it was on something of a fishing expedition.’

  Another bright smile. ‘I see you are, what … a detective agency? You weren’t serious about making a booking, then?’

  ‘No, we’re not a detective agency and yes, I might well be looking for a room in which to hold a party in a while. What I really came about, what I really wanted, was some background information on the people whose charity function you are having here tonight.’

  The smile disappeared. ‘What might your interest be?’

  ‘Unpaid bills from previous functions.’

  The manageress’ mouth tightened. ‘I really don’t think that—’

  ‘Was their cheque for the deposit honoured?’

  The woman put her coffee down on the tray, untouched. ‘Yes, of course.’ But her tone was guarded and her eyes flickered to a drawer in her desk.

  ‘At the second attempt, perhaps?’ said Bea. ‘Were they full of apologies that their first cheque bounced, and promised to give you another? Has this second cheque been presented yet?’

  ‘It only came in the other day. I was going to bank it on Monday. True, there had been a problem with their first cheque, but that was all explained away. Do you have any reason to believe this one will bounce, too?’

  ‘It’s happened before. Have you by any chance checked their references? No? Well, perhaps I’d better explain why I’m here. I’ve just returned from some months abroad, during which time the Abbot Agency has been run down …’ />
  When Bea reached the point at which Coral had been gulled into taking on a second event, the manageress reached for her cup and swallowed her coffee in two gulps. When she’d finished, Bea sat back and waited. Now all would depend on the manageress’ reaction. She might choose to reject Bea’s story. Or she might decide to cancel the function, cutting her losses.

  Or she might want revenge.

  ‘What a story!’ The manageress tried on a smile, which didn’t adhere to her face. ‘This is the week for tall stories. First the police come about a missing member of staff and then, well, where’s your proof? You come in off the street with a fanciful tale about wanting a booking which you have no intention of making and then—’

  ‘Check the references,’ said Bea. ‘You’ll find they’re false.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re perfectly all right. Mrs Briggs is most … I can’t believe this is happening.’

  ‘Believe it. How much are you set to lose tonight, if they flit without payment?’

  ‘They wouldn’t do that. Why, we’d slap a solicitor’s letter on them, sue them.’

  ‘Check their address and telephone number. Both are false. The address given is that of a small corner shop. The telephone number on the fliers is out of commission.’

  The manageress delved into her desk for a file, and drew out a letterhead for the false charity. She reached for the phone, and dialled a number. Listened to the voice at the other end of the phone, replaced the handset.

  ‘The Bolivian Embassy?’ asked Bea.

  The woman attacked the phone again. Bea excused herself to visit the toilets. She didn’t see any reason to sit and watch the manageress’ humiliation.

  Returning, Bea noticed that the receptionist behind the desk in the foyer was fiddling with her hair and blowing her nose, shuffling papers aimlessly. Distrait. Staff shortage? What was it the manageress had said about the police and a missing member of staff? The commissionaire was an elderly man with a hostile expression, busy with a couple of large American tourists. Well, it was no business of hers.

  When she got back to the manageress’ office, she found the woman retouching her make-up. The coffee pot was drained dry. ‘Sorry about that.’ She held out her hand to Bea. ‘The name’s McNeice.’

  ‘Bea Abbot. Would you care to see the bills from the other places?’

  A nod. ‘I’ve alerted the managing director and he’ll be in shortly, when we’ll have to decide what to do. Frankly, he’s a bit of a ditherer and it’ll be me who makes the decision.’

  She scrutinized the papers Bea passed to her. ‘They’re upping the numbers each time, aren’t they? Tonight we’re catering for two hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Among whom is at least one Member of Parliament who is bringing a party. I myself am bringing a party of four, which will include my ex-husband, the portrait painter. Everyone will be wearing evening dress, sporting jewellery, driving up in limousines. They’ll have paid high prices for the tickets and they’ll donate money freely under the impression that it will go to charity. They’ll go away happy, but you, the caterer and the cabaret will be out of pocket. So will the charity.’

  Ms McNeice was accustomed to making decisions. ‘Right. Two ways we can deal with this; cancel and cut our losses or go ahead. I don’t want to cancel because it will upset all the people who’ve paid to attend. It’s a cut-throat market, all of us hotels trying to attract corporate hospitality, and this is exactly the sort of function we want – no, that we need. I agree with you; the guests are not the ones who will suffer. If we go ahead, they’ll have a good time and remember us when they want the same again.

  ‘The hotel will be out of pocket for the hire of the room, the wine we’re serving and the wages of the people we’ve employed to set up. Under the circumstances I’m going to suggest that the hotel stands the loss. We were going to supply a rather good wine, but we can downgrade to plonk and that will save a few pennies.’

  ‘Maybe you can stand the loss,’ said Bea, ‘but what about the caterer? A new, young firm, who are going to bust a gut to produce food to die for, thinking it’s their golden opportunity to break into the market. What about them?’

  Ms McNeice dismissed the uncomfortable thought. ‘They’ll have some insurance.’

  ‘Would you care to check?’

  Ms McNeice licked her upper lip. ‘You must understand my position.’

  ‘I do,’ said Bea. ‘I can also see a second caterer being driven into bankruptcy. Plus all the other people these con men have hurt along the way. Plus the charities whom I think we may say will never see a penny of the money that’s been raised for them.’

  Ms McNeice fiddled with her earrings. They were faceted black earrings this time. She took them off. ‘I won’t cancel. Anyway, it wouldn’t help anyone if I did.’

  ‘Agreed. You mentioned the police earlier. They haven’t been round asking about these people, have they?’

  The woman blinked. ‘No, nothing like that. A member of staff went missing, that’s all.’

  Bea nodded. ‘Normally I’d say we should bring in the police, but two of the victims reject that idea.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Ms McNeice was abstracted. ‘It’s made us very short-handed. I shall have to get on to an agency for …’ She picked up Bea’s card. ‘You don’t supply …? No, you said the agency was being wound down, didn’t you?’

  ‘In normal times we would be able to help you out but … wait a minute. Would the services of a fully-trained silver service waitress help? I might just be able to help you there.’ Would this be a way of getting Coral into the hotel that evening?

  ‘Heavens, yes. Anyone who can serve wine without spilling it all over the place.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ said Bea, making a note. ‘There’s one other thing. This is exactly the sort of function where people like to have their photos taken and these people have been supplying their own photographer who likes to pose the guests with a pretty Asian girl. He sells Polaroids on the spot and pockets the cash, which means he can avoid snapping the organizers. So far I haven’t been able to track down a single photograph of them.’

  ‘We asked if they wanted the photographer we normally use for these events, but they said they’d bring their own.’

  ‘Understandable. Can you arrange somehow for their photos to be taken this evening without them knowing? Perhaps with one of these new phone-cameras?’

  ‘Yes, I can do that. But …’ She threw herself back in her chair. ‘Let’s get this straight. If we go ahead, we lose. If we cancel, we lose. Any bright ideas about how we can come out of this in one piece?’

  ‘We know what they look like, and if we can take photographs of them, that will help. We’ve found their accommodation address – which is local – but we don’t know where they’re actually living. We don’t even know if the names they’ve given are genuine. The best plan I can come up with is that we take them off into another room at the end of the evening and confront them with what they’ve done, and with the photographs we’ve taken of them. Then we ask for recompense. Can you let me have copies of the cheques they’ve given you so far?’

  ‘I’ll give you copies now.’ She switched on a printer-cum-photocopier, and set it to work. ‘You think they’ll divvy up, just like that?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I think we might have to threaten to go to the police if they don’t pay us – and you – what they owe.’

  ‘I really don’t want to bring in the police because it’ll get into the papers and that frightens the customers away, but if they hold their nerve, they could just walk out of here and disappear.’ She handed over photocopies of a couple of cheques.

  ‘Have you got a better idea?’

  The woman pulled a face. ‘Not a legal one. I know a couple of guys who play rugby …’ Her gaze shifted from Bea.

  ‘Tommy Banks, the manager of the Garden Room, would like to have a go at them, too. But would that sort of pressure work? I mean, we could get them to sign a bunch of chequ
es tonight, and they could cancel them first thing Monday morning.’

  Ms McNeice continued to gaze at the ceiling. ‘It’s only a fantasy, of course. I’d rather like to hold them incommunicado in one of our cellars till the cheques have been cleared.’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘But of course we can’t. It would be illegal and they could have us up for false imprisonment.’

  Bea caught her eye, and they both laughed. ‘It’s a tempting thought, but no, we can’t do that. Leave it with me, will you? I have a computer geek who might be able to think up something. Meanwhile …’

  ‘I convince my managing director that we’ve got to go ahead, get a photographer lined up, and arrange for a suitable room to be available for a quiet after-hours chat with our friends. How many do you think there will be?’

  ‘We think there are four people operating the scam: Mrs Somers-Briggs – who seems to be the brains behind the outfit – that’s one. Then there’s the man who does the auction and acts as MC. He also plays the piano rather well. His name is Jerry, or Richard, something like it. Then there’s a handsome lad who may or may not be Mrs Somers-Briggs’ son. I’m not sure whether he’s the DJ or the photographer, but either way, he’s supposed to be a wow with the ladies.

  ‘Apart from those four there’s an Asian girl, name unknown. We’re not sure if she’s part of the team or not; she’s certainly helping them by telling a sob story and milking the punters. We’re pretty certain that the cabaret people are victims rather than predators.’

  ‘I’ll get on to it.’ Ms McNeice replaced her earrings and stood up as one of her phones rang.

  Bea stowed the photocopies of the cheques in her handbag, while Ms McNeice answered the phone. ‘Yes, well … tell her we’re relying on her … yes, I know she’s upset, but … no, the police have all gone now … tell her from me that if she doesn’t turn up this evening, she’s lost her job … yes. Must go.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Ms McNeice, showing Bea to the door. ‘Another problem. A receptionist not wanting to work tonight. She’s upset by what’s been happening here but I really can’t afford to have another of my staff go missing.’